


Risen

by FishEyenoMiko



Series: Risen [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, First Time, M/M, Mild Gore, Minor Violence, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-07
Updated: 2013-02-07
Packaged: 2017-11-28 12:02:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/674179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FishEyenoMiko/pseuds/FishEyenoMiko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John becomes convinced that Sherlock isn't dead, and goes to look for him... but is he prepared for what he'll find?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Risen

It wasn't the first time it had happened; John got the feeling he was being watched. Looking around the Tube he didn’t see anything unusual. But then, what did he expect? A blood covered man holding a harpoon? He laughed at the memory. He sighed, leaning back in his seat.

As he headed back to his house, John thought over the incident. Really, the idea of being watched shouldn't surprise him. Between the possibility of some of Moriarty's men being after him, Mycroft keeping tabs on him, and possibly even Lestrade wanting to keep him safe, he'd be more surprised if he _didn't_ feel like he was being watched. With that decided, he thought no more about it as he walked into his flat.

 

John laid the flowers on Sherlock's grave. He suspected Sherlock would have found the gesture pointlessly sentimental, but he felt this sort of thing was more about comforting the living, anyway.

"I still miss you," he said, running his fingers across the top of Sherlock's headstone. "I-"

It was there again, that feeling of being watched. He turned, noticing movement in the trees. The figure was tall, and wearing some long coat. John moved closer. Was he seeing what-- _who?_ \--he thought he was seeing?

"Sherlock...?

The figure fled. John gave chase.

"Wait! I- dammit..."

The figure moved incredibly fast, and it soon disappeared into the distance. John sighed.

Walking back to Sherlock's grave, John stared at it for a moment? Was it a lie? Was this an empty grave? Or maybe, one with another body in it...?

Or was John just seeing what he wanted to see?

 

It was an article in the International section of one of the newspapers John read; just a small item about a smuggling ring broken up in Marseille, France. Normally, John wouldn't have given it much thought, but something about the events caught his eye. Wanting more information, John opened his laptop, looking for an English translation of an article about the event from a French newspaper. 

Even the local paper was short on details. On an anonymous tip, the police had discovered the smuggling ring at the port of Marseille. Twenty people had been arrested; two had been killed attempting to flee. The cargo was guns from the United States. There were no names given, though, and the authorities were uncertain if this group was part of a larger organization. John suspected they were.

John began pacing. This was nuts. Sherlock was dead. The figure he'd seen in the cemetery was probably one of Mycroft's men. Or perhaps he'd imagined it.

John collapsed into his chair. "Sherlock..."

 

The sun was rising as John made his way into his hotel room. He dropped his luggage on the floor and flopped onto the bed. As he stared up at the ceiling, he decided that he must have finally gone insane. Here he was, in a hotel in Marseille, based on nothing more than a newspaper article that somehow managed to convince him that a man he'd seen jump to his death was on the continent dismantling smuggling rings.

His phone beeped, indicating he had a text. He glanced at his mobile:

_An English-speaking tour guide will meet you in the lobby at 11:30._  
Sending image.  
-MH 

John clicked on the image to see that the tour guide a nice-looking woman with jet-black hair. Under the image was the name "Noelle Blanc". He sighed. At least Mycroft wasn't sending someone to drag him back to London.

 

At 11:30, John made his way down to the lobby. As promised, the blonde woman was waiting, reading a book to pass the time. John walked up to her.

"Mademoiselle Blanc?"

She looked up. Smiling, she put her book aside and got to her feet.

"Doctor John Watson?"

"Yeah, hi," he said, shaking her hand. "So, you're going give me a tour of Marseille?"

"Actually," she said in a thick French accent, "You will tell me where you want to go, and I will make sure you get there and back safely."

John smiled. "Oh, good."

Taking out his phone, John quickly found a map of Marseille and zeroed in on the area he wanted to go.

"I'd like to go here," he said, pointing to the Port of Marseille.

Mlle. Blanc nodded. "It will take us about half an hour to get there."

"Okay, then let's get started."

 

As they drove to the Port of Marseille, Mlle. Blanc handed John a card. It was a press pass with his name and picture, proclaiming him a reporter for something called The London Starling.

"If you are a reporter, the harbor master is more likely to answer your questions."

"Yeah, that makes sense," John replied. "Thanks, Mlle. Blanc."

She smiled. "Please, call me Noelle."

"Okay. You can call me John."

"John... may I ask a question?"

"Of course."

"Why not go to the police?"

"I want to talk to the workers at the port first. They might have... the information I'm looking for."

"Ah, I see."

 

They arrived at the port and went to the harbour master's office. The harbor master was a man named Remy Beaulieu, who looked less than happy to see them.

"Uh, hello," John started, pulling out his fake press pass. "I'm doing an article on the smuggling ring that was busted here last week, and I was wondering if you could tell me about it?"

M. Beaulieu gave him an irritated look and began grumbling in French.

When he finally ran down, Noelle translated: "He's... mostly upset with how the police presence made things more hectic, and caused several of his workers to be arrested or quit."

John sighed. He decided to cut to the chase. Reaching into his jacket, he pulled out a picture of Sherlock.

"Was this man involved at all?"

Noelle translated, but M. Beaulieu was already shaking his head. "Non, non... I 'ave never seen 'im."

John nodded. "Okay. Merci.

"Would you mind if I asked around the harbour a bit? Maybe one of the others saw him."

A quick translation later, M. Beaulieu nodded. He picked up his phone and made a quick call. Noelle leaned in and spoke softly to John.

"He is asking the foreman, Monsieur Jean Marchand, to come and show us around."

John nodded.

The foreman led them to a group of men on their lunch break. John showed them the picture but no one recognized him. They asked a few more of the workers that had been there on the day of the bust, but none of them recognised Sherlock.

John was slightly discouraged but still hopeful as they headed back to the car.

"Maybe one of the workers who were arrested will have seen him," John said, mostly talking aloud to himself.

As they passed between two rows of shipping containers, John got the rather uncomfortable feeling they were being followed. He turned to Noelle to see the she looked on edge, too.

"Come on," he said, taking her hand and running towards the end of the container. 

Suddenly, three men came around the end of one the containers. Turning, John saw two other men approaching the other way. Instinctively, he pulled Noelle behind him.

"Look, whatever you guys want-"

One of the men charged John, who sidestepped him and slammed him against one of the containers, knocking him out. Another managed to grab John from behind, but Noelle rushed forward and gave the man a well-aimed punch in the kidneys. John was easily able to knock the injured man to the ground. During the scuffle, the men who'd come from the other side of the container had closed the distance between them. One of them came at Noelle with a switchblade. Seeing it just in time, John knocked them both to the ground, kicking out at their attacker. He hit the man in the knee; painful but hardly debilitating. As the man fell, he had the presence of mind to lash out. John felt his head hit the concrete, and his vision started to swim. Before he lost consciousness, he saw a dark figure appear. Amazing, familiar blue eyes stared at him for a second, and then...

 

John sat up. It took him a moment to recognise his hotel room. He was on the bed, and was a little surprised to see that Noelle was on the floor. She was wrapped in the duvet from John's bed and had one of the pillows under her head, but still. John smiled. This arrangement strengthened his belief that Sherlock was alive. After all, most people would have put the woman in the bed and made the man sleep on the floor, but Sherlock cared more about John than... well, anyone, so of course he'd put John in the bed and make the woman sleep on the floor. Getting up, he walked over and gently shook Noelle.

"Hey... Noelle... wake up."

The young woman sat up, muttering something in French.

"It's okay, it okay," John said.

Noelle turned and looked at him. "Oh, John! What happened?"

"I'm... not exactly sure myself," he said, as he helped her to her feet

She looked thoughtful for a moment, then: "You saved my life!"

"Well, I... yeah... I think we were both saved by someone else, though..."

"Who?"

"I'm not sure," John lied. He sighed. "I'm really sorry about all this. I should go home. This was..."

Was what? A mistake? But it wasn't, John was certain he'd seen Sherlock's face. He was alive, after all, as John had hoped.

However, John had a feeling that now that Sherlock knew John was in Marseille, he'd leave. After all, if he'd wanted to see John, he would've stayed in the hotel room... 

"It's all right," said Noelle. "I was warned being with you could be dangerous."

John laughed. "I see. Still... thank you for all your help."

"You're very welcome. But after all, I was just doing my job."

"Well... if you could get me to the airport and get me a ticket back to London, I'd appreciate it."

Noelle smiled. "Of course."

 

John walked into the sitting room of 221b. It felt so different from the last time he'd been there. Then, it had felt cold and empty, like it was missing something. It was warmer now, and it wasn't so much missing something as waiting for it to return. 

John smiled as he looked around. Most signs of Sherlock having lived there were gone; his books, his papers, his chemistry equipment, his violin and music stand. But there were still signs: The smiley-face on the wall, and the skull resting on the mantle. John walked over, running his fingers over its parietal bone.

"Hullo?!"

"It's just me, Mrs. Hudson," John shouted back. 

Mr. Hudson walked into the room, smiling at him. "Hello, dear! I wasn't sure if you were going to be back. Getting a few things, are you?"

"No, Mrs. Hudson, I've decided to stay. If you'll have me, that is."

"Well, of course I will," said Mrs. Hudson, walking up and giving his arm a squeeze. "Are you sure, dear?"

"Yeah, I am. I like it here, and... staying away is just denial and avoidance, neither of which is healthy."

Mrs. Hudson smiled. "I'm glad you're staying. Is there anything I can get you? I was about to make dinner, should I make you some? There's no food in fridge right now."

"I... yeah, actually that sounds good. I'll be down in a few minutes. Thanks, Mrs. Hudson."

 

"So, you gave Sherlock's things to a school?" John wasn't mad--at the time, he thought Sherlock was dead, too.

"I was going to," said Mrs. Hudson as she twirled some pasta around her fork, "But then his brother came by and got them."

Of course Mycroft would know. The only real question was whether he was in on it from the start, or Sherlock contacted him after the fact.

"I see. Yeah, I can see him wanting reminders of his brother."

"Yes. He's a bit of a cold fish. But, then, I guess that runs in the family."

John just nodded in agreement as he took another bite of his garlic bread.

 

John flopped into his chair. He'd been working a lot of double shifts recently, and was glad that he had a few days off. Exhausted, he picked up a paper and began thumbing through it. Casually scanning the International section, he once again found an article that popped out at him; a drug trafficking ring in Bern, Switzerland had been broken up, with many members being arrested or killed during a raid of a warehouse. Like with the case in France, John got on his laptop and looked for local news about the incident. As with the previous case, there was little information, even on local Sites. After a moment's thought, he began looking at prices for airplane tickets.

As John stood in the airport in Bern waiting for his luggage, his phone beeped.

_Your translator/tour guide will meet you at the hotel at 18:00._  
See image.  
-MH 

The picture was a very Germanic-looking blonde man. Under his picture was his name, Wilhelm Foltz.

 

At 18:00, John went down to the lobby to meet Herr Foltz. He was sitting at a table texting on a Blackberry. He looked up and smiled at him.

"Hello, Doctor Watson," he said, putting away his Blackberry and standing up. 

"Hello, it's very nice to meet you," he said, shaking his hand.

"Look, I know it's a bit late," said John, "but I was wondering if we could go to the police station?"

"Certainly."

They got into the car--not a taxi, but one Herr Foltz had hired. They drove for half an hour when John got an uneasy feeling. Getting out his phone, he checked the address for the police station. It was only about fifteen minutes from their hotel and not near any of the streets he was seeing. 

"What's going on?"

The car pulled to up the kerb, and the driver turned to Herr Foltz.

" _Aus_ ," he said curtly. 

Herr Foltz exited the car without question. John was about to speak up when the driver turned to face him. Despite the light-coloured hair and the hat, John knew who it was as soon as he saw the man's eyes. He didn't have to time to say it, though, before a hand lashed out of the back of the seat, faster than he could even think and everything went dark.

 

John woke up feeling rather sore. "Did anyone get the license plate of that lorry?"

"You need stop following me, John." 

John's eyes popped open and he shot up. Sitting at the table near the bed was a tall man with long, curly, ginger hair. He wore a pair of loose jeans, long enough that they pooled around his ankles. His shirt was also loose on him; a dark blue plaid thing. Leaning closer, John realised that despite the shabby clothes and the long, pale hair, the man sitting at his hotel table was...

"Sherlock!"

John sprang off the bed and rushed over to Sherlock. Pulling him to his feet, he wrapped his arms around the taller man.

"Oh, God, Sherlock, you're here! And you're real!"

John stepped back, looking Sherlock up and down. 

"I knew I was right! I knew you were still alive!"

He hugged him again.

Then he backed away, slugging him in the arm.

"You right _bastard_! How could you leave me like that?! And why haven't you contacted me to let me know you're all right?! Don't you trust me? Don't you think I can keep a secret?"

John suddenly felt drained of energy, like he'd finished a 30-kilometre march. He slumped a bit, leaning his head against Sherlock's chest.

"I'm so glad to see you again," he whispered.

Sherlock finally pulled John away, looking down at angrily.

"Sherlock, what-"

"Just how stupid are you? Did it ever occur to you that I was avoiding you for a reason?"

John was staggered a bit--he'd forgotten how harsh Sherlock could be. He quickly caught his footing, though. 

"Okay... why?"

"Moriarty's organization is vast and widespread, John. If word gets around that you're... gallivanting around the globe, they're going to get suspicious."

"They... might suspect you're still alive? So what?"

"Oh, for God's sake..."

Sherlock began to pace. He ran his fingers through his hair.

"The day I jumped, there were three snipers; ready to kill you, and Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson. If I hadn’t jumped, they would have killed you. All _three_ of you."

John felt a little ill. 

"I see. And... if they think you're alive, we'll be in danger."

"Which is why I can't go back. Not until the whole organization is destroyed. Until you're all out danger. Why are you smiling?"

"He didn't just target me. He knows you care about Mrs. Hudson and Greg, too."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

"Yes, _that's_ what you should be thinking about right now..."

"Sorry," John said.

Sherlock sat back down.

"You need to go back to London, John. And _stay there_."

John nodded. "Yeah, okay."

There was a pause.

"How did you do it, then? Survive the fall?"

Sherlock looked at John thoughtfully. Then he smiled.

"I have a story I'm going to tell Lestrade and the others when I get back, but... I'm going to tell you the truth."

"Oh... kay...?"

Sherlock got up and went into the bathroom. He brought out a few towels and set them next to the sink in the room's kitchenette.

"Come over here, John."

John walked over and leaned against the counter. Sherlock gave him a grave look.

"John, I want you to promise me something."

"Can I hear what it is first?"

Sherlock looked thoughtful, the nodded. "I want to stand there and not interfere with that I'm about to do. You'll want to stop me, or help me; but you have to trust I know what I'm doing."

John looked deep into Sherlock's eyes; those pale, narrow eyes that he had missed so much. 

"Okay."

"You _swear_?"

"I swear."

"Good," Sherlock replied. 

Sherlock opened his coat and pulled a large hunting knife off his belt. John decided not to think too hard about the uses that knife had been put to during Sherlock's adventures.

Holding his hand above the sink, Sherlock took the knife and slid it across his hand, creating a deep cut. John couldn't help stepping forward, wanting to reach out and help his friend.

"John, you swore!"

John froze in his tracks.

"Sorry."

Sherlock nodded. He was holding his bleeding hand over the sink, and turned it so the light shone on it.

"Do you want to inspect the wound, to see if it's real?" Sherlock asked. "It's all right, John, it doesn't hurt."

Stepping forward, John carefully touched the wound. When Sherlock gave no signs of pain or distress, he got a little more forceful, handling the wound in a way he would usually only do with a cadaver; poking at it and pulling at the edges. Finally, he stepped back.

"Yes, it's real, all right."

Sherlock nodded. Then he closed his fist. Turning on the tap, Sherlock took one of the towels and ran it under the water. Opening his fist, he wiped his hand with the wet towel. He then held out his hand so John could see it. The cut was now shallow, and as John watched it closed up completely, not even leaving a scar.

"I don't understand..."

Sherlock rinsed out the towel. He turned to John and stepped towards him. He opened his mouth, and his canine teeth lengthened into two gleaming fangs. "John... I'm a vampire."

John blinked.

"A... vampire...? Like... drinks blood, hates crosses... sparkles?"

"I don't care one way or the about crosses, actually," Sherlock replied. "But, yes, I drink blood."

John walked over and sat at the table. 

"But... I've seen you eat." He furrowed his brow. "For that matter, I've seen you get injured and take time to heal."

Taking the other seat at the table, Sherlock smiled at his friend. 

"I only became a vampire the night before I jumped.

"I've known about the existence of vampires for several years--the 'how' isn't important right now--and I suspected Molly might know some."

"Because she works in a morgue?"

"Right. They occasionally encounter vampires under various circumstances."

"Yeah... yeah, I can see that." John nodded. "So, you asked her if she could contact a vampire and have them... make you one?"

"Exactly," Sherlock confirmed.

There was a pause, as John tried to process this new information.

"So... you said you were going to tell the others a lie. Why tell me the truth?"

"Well, for one thing, I trust you. Also, if you know I'm a vampire, and thus impossible to kill through most methods humans know of, you'll feel better about going back to England and leaving hunting Moriarty's men to me."

"That... actually makes sense."

"Of course it does."

John laughed. Sherlock smiled back.

"You should get some sleep, John."

"Yeah, okay."

As John headed for the bed, Sherlock headed for the balcony.

"Wait," said John, "you're leaving?"

"Yes. It will be easier for me to leave while it's dark."

"Oh..." John tried to hide the disappointment in his voice.

Sherlock looked at him for a second, then said, "I can stay until you fall asleep. But I won't be here when you wake up."

"Okay."

"And... John it may be awhile until I can see you again."

"Like... are we talking weeks, months... years...?" John's stomach twisted a bit at the thought of that last possibility.

"It... could be years, yes. I'm sorry, John."

"No, it's... it's all right."

As John slid under the covers he mused, "I guess I should see about getting tickets back home tomorrow."

Sherlock looked thoughtful. "Actually, you should stay and sightsee. It will look less suspicious than if you change your plans last-minute."

"Good point," said John, nodding.

John settled into bed. "Good night, Sherlock."

"Good night, John. I'll see you as soon as I can."

 

John stayed in Bern for the rest of the week, sightseeing and enjoying having some free time to himself. When he finally headed back to England, he felt ready to face whatever was waiting for him at home.

 

John found it surprisingly easy to get back into his normal routine. He worked and wrote in his blog. He did a little socializing; he and Lestrade went out to the pub about once a week, and he occasionally visited Molly in the morgue. He didn't let on that he knew Sherlock was alive, nor did he attempt to make her spill the beans. John also occasionally went to medical lectures in and around London, partially to keep his skills and knowledge up-to-date, but also to hang out with friends from university and around the medical community. 

But despite all this, John found himself feeling restless; without Sherlock around, being alone in the flat was a lot less interesting. He wondered if there was something he could do with his spare time. One afternoon, while typing in his blog, a thought occurred to him.

That evening, he went to have dinner with Mrs. Hudson. They had taken to eating dinner together about twice a week. They enjoyed spending time together, and it made sure both of them--especially John--got a good home-cooked meal occasionally.

"Mrs. Hudson," John said near the end of the meal.

"Yes, dear?"

"I'm thinking of writing a book... about Sherlock."

"Oh! Oh, that would be marvelous!"

John laughed.

"Thanks. Anyway, you knew Sherlock before I did, and... well, I'm wondering if you wouldn't mind talking about the incident in Florida? Only what you'd feel comfortable telling me, of course."

"Oh! Like an interview?"

"Yeah, exactly."

"Oh, that would be lovely. Right now?"

"No... no, maybe in a few days? I need to get some things together, and you might want to think things over, maybe get some notes together yourself." 

"Oh, yes, that would be a good idea. Oh, this is wonderful!"

 

The idea to write a book had hit John pretty much out of the blue, but now that he had it, he loved the notion. He worked on trying to figure out an outline; he considered what aspects of Sherlock's life and personality he should focus on, and who he should talk to. Mrs. Hudson was obvious, as was Lestrade and Mycroft. He was still rather sore with Mycroft, but the man was really the only way to get any insight into Sherlock's childhood. John also made two important decisions about the book: He wanted to use it to try and repair Sherlock's reputation, and he would not in any way hint that he knew Sherlock was still alive.

 

For the next few weeks, John spent most of his time working at the clinic and getting together interviews, blog entries, newspaper articles, and other information to write his book. It was tiring, but worth it. Once he got everything together, he went about actually writing the book. After a few months' work, John felt it was ready, and sent copied of it off in hopes of finding a publisher.

 

John went to a medical convention in Dublin. It was the first time he'd been away from London for any length of time since going to Bern. As much as he loved London--he couldn't imagine living anywhere else--he wondered if he should travel more. Perhaps when Sherlock returned, they could travel together. Sherlock could take them to the places he'd been. And they could find new places to explore together.

 

Coming home from the conference, John put away his things, then went to get his mail from Mrs. Hudson. He walked back into the sitting room and sat at the table. There were some bills, some letters--both hate-and fan-mail--from people who had followed Sherlock's career, and... John held up the letter from Penguin Books. Taking a slow breath, he opened it.

"Mrs. Hudson! Mrs. Hudson!"

John ran down the stairs, meeting her near the bottom.

"What is it, John? Are you all right?"

John showed her the letter. "Penguin is going to publish my book!"

"Oh, John! That's wonderful!" 

Mrs. Hudson gave John a hug. 

"I'm sure Sherlock would be very proud of you."

"Thanks," said John.

 

Six months later, the book _True Genius: Sherlock Holmes_ hit the shelves. It was a huge hit, requiring second, then third printings. Both fans and detractors bought it; either to soak up all the minutiae of Sherlock's life, or to scoff at the "fake genius". John did his best not to let the disbelievers get him down; he quickly deleted their e-mails and threw their snail mail in the fire and ignored their Web Sites. He made a folder on his lap top for the fan e-mails and an actual folder in his filing cabinet for the fan letters. He frequented fan Sites and blogs, anonymously posting encouraging messages.

John continued to work; he enjoyed helping people. But with money from his book staring to come in, working at a clinic became a part-time thing he did more for charitable reasons than needing the cash.

Nearly a year had passed since John had seen Sherlock in Switzerland. He was missing him again, though at least he was happy in the knowledge that Sherlock's new... state of being would keep him safe as he did what needed to be done.

 

One day in early May, there was a knock on the sitting room door and someone peeked in.

"Hello?"

John looked up from his laptop and saw Henry Knight, a former client of his and Sherlock's at the door.

"Henry? Henry Knight? Come in!"

Henry came in, smiling. "Hey! Nice to see you again." He turned toward the door. "Let me introduce my fiancée, Beryl."

A cute, dark-haired girl walked in, shaking John's hand.

"Hi! I read that book you wrote! It was great!"

"Thanks," said John, smiling.

He turned to Henry. "So, what are you doing here?"

Smiling, he turned to Beryl and took her hand. 

"I know this is sort of out of the blue, but: Will you be my best man?"

"Your... are you sure? I mean, haven't you got a brother or a friend..."

"No, brother, and as for friends... I haven't got anyone I'm that close to. And you and Sherlock gave me my life back, I figured you should share my special day. If you want?"

"Sure, I'd be honoured! Congratulations!"

"Great!" said Henry, "We're getting married on May 24th; is that too soon?"

"No, that's fine. Ever since the book hit it big, I've been able to be a more flexible with my work schedule."

"Excellent."

 

John arrived in Devon on the Thursday before the wedding. Despite Henry's generous offer to let John stay at his house, John decided to stay at the Cross Keys, the same inn he and Sherlock had stayed at when they'd been there on the case Henry had brought them. 

On Friday, John went to the wedding rehearsal, and in the evening, the rehearsal dinner. The wedding itself was a surprisingly small and unassuming affair, but no less lovely for its simplicity.

 

Sunday evening, John decided to take a walk around the moors. As much as John loved London, it was nice to be out in the country. As he walked around enjoying the scenery, he again got the feeling he was being watched. Feeling exposed standing out in the open, he headed for a rock outcropping. Suddenly, a shot rang out. John dropped to the ground, but still felt the all-too-familiar pain of the bullet ripping through his leg.

 

John regained consciousness tied to a chair. His head and head hurt and he had a piece of cloth stuffed in his mouth. Looking around, John saw that he was in room lit with a single overhead bulb. Standing in front of him was a man, who was smirking at him.

"Dr. John Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers."

John rolled his eyes.

The man drew a gun from his shoulder holster and pointed it at John's head.

"You're lucky I want you alive."

There was a noise. The man lowered his gun and smiled. 

"It looks like the guest of honour has arrived."

With that, the man disappeared into the darkness.

The door to the room opened. A pale, ginger-haired figure peeked in; it took a moment for John to realise it was Sherlock. Despite knowing Sherlock would be okay, John still looked in the direction the man had gone off in. Sherlock ran into the room and kneeled in front of the chair John was tied to.

"John, are you all right?" Sherlock asked he pulled the cloth out. But as soon as he did, there was a gunshot. Sherlock jerked as the bullet hit him, and slumped forward, blood staining his shirt.

The gunman came forward. He pushed Sherlock over, holding the gun on him. Sherlock took a shaky, labored breath.

"Still alive? Good..." The man grinned. "I can't decide... should I kill your little doctor here, and make you watch, so you die knowing your friend died first? Or should I kill _you_ , and let him live, so he goes through the rest of his life with the knowledge that he got his best friend killed?"

Sherlock coughed. 

"I... I have a better idea..."

"Oh?"

Dropping the "wounded" act, Sherlock got to his feet. The gunman only had a moment to be surprised before Sherlock punched him hard enough to send him to the ground.

"I could kill you."

"Is he dead?"

"Not yet," Sherlock replied. "I'll go... dispose of him. Can you wait?"

"Yeah."

Nodding, Sherlock easily lifted the man and carried him off. 

When Sherlock came back in, John noticed he didn't look as pale as when he left. He also saw a bit of red on the left side of Sherlock's mouth.

"You've got a little... uh... there on the left side..."

Sherlock's licked the left side of him mouth. John found himself blushing at the sight of Sherlock's tongue.

"There, you got it," said John.

Sherlock walked over and untied John. He examined the wound in his leg.

"It's actually not too bad." John laughed. "I've had worse. Can we get out of here?"

"Sure," said Sherlock, smiling. He helped John to his feet and put his arm around him, helping him out the shack. As they left the building, John was a little surprised to see that it was dark out.

"John?"

"Yes?"

"I think it might be best if I carried you."

"Uh... yeah, okay," said John. "We're going back to the village, then?

"Actually, I have some supplies secreted away nearby," Sherlock replied. "I'd like to change my shirt, and we can get your leg seen to, as well."

"Okay."

Turning around, Sherlock got into a pose that clearly meant he intended to carry John piggy-back. Putting his arms around Sherlock's neck, John let himself be lifted up, and they began heading across the moor. 

 

As they got further from the lights of the shack. It got darker and darker, until John could barely see at all. He found himself clinging closer to Sherlock.

"John?"

"Sherlock... I can't see."

"Close your eyes," said Sherlock. "Your mind more easily accepts not being able to see if your eyes are closed."

"Right, okay," said John, closing his eyes. He rested his hand on Sherlock's shoulder and let himself be carried along.

 

After about ten minutes, Sherlock spoke up again.

"We're here, John." He carefully maneuvered around. "I'm going to lower you on to a rock."

"Okay."

Sherlock lowered John slowly, and surely enough, John ended up sitting on a smooth, flat rock that was tall enough to make a decent seat. Sherlock gently let go of him.

John heard movement. Opening his eyes, John could only see dim shapes. He honestly wasn't sure if opening his eyes had really helped anything.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"That's you, right? What are you doing?"

"I'm gathering some wood for a fire." 

There was a pause, and more noise.

"You're nervous," Sherlock observed.

"I can't _see_ anything!"

"Would it help if I kept talking?"

"Yes, that would be good."

"Okay. The bones of the human body are the tibia, the fibula, the first metatarsus, the second metatarsus..."

Sherlock continued to name bones and other parts of the human anatomy as he gathered wood and set up an ersatz fireplace. Finally, he got out a lighter and set the wood ablaze. John let out a sigh as it got bright enough he could see around himself a bit. 

"Better?"

"Yes, thanks," said John with a smile. 

Sherlock nodded. He disappeared into the darkness for moment, then came back with a bag. Setting it on the rock next to John, he opened it and took out a shirt. Removing his old one, he threw it into the fire. Then he put the new shirt on and sat down next to John. The rock John was sitting was long enough to seat them both comfortably.

"Does your leg still hurt?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah."

Sherlock looked at the fire, a contemplative look on his face. Finally, he turned to John.

"I can help."

"Oh?"

"Vampire blood has healing properties. I've not done it before, but I think I can heal your wound almost completely. I've seen vampires heal worse."

"Vampire blood can... yeah, that makes sense." John shifted uncomfortably. "Will I have to... to drink it?"

"No," Sherlock replied. 

Moving a little closer to John, Sherlock gently lifted his leg. 

"I'm going to lick it clean first-"

"Seriously?"

"Yes."

"You're.... going to lick my leg?"

"It needs to be cleaned, and there's no water about." Sherlock gave John a look. "You're a doctor, John, you know sometimes you have to do... awkward things to heal someone." 

"All right," said John, sighing. "Oh, wait." 

John undid his trousers, then slowly and carefully wiggled out of them. He then moved closer to Sherlock.

Sherlock got down on the ground. Then he leaned over and gently licked the wound. Suddenly he sat back, a startled look on his face.

"Sherlock?"

"I..." he looked away and cleared his throat. "It's nothing."

John knew Sherlock well enough to know when "It's nothing," actually meant "I don't want to talk about it." He also knew him well enough to know when to push the issue, and when to leave well enough alone. This was definitely the latter case, so John just nodded.

After a moment, Sherlock leaned back down, licking John's leg a few more times. Then he sat up and looked at John.

"John, I've never done this before, so I'm not sure how it's going to feel for you."

"Okay."

Sherlock nodded. Then John watched as Sherlock bit his own tongue, and leaned towards John's leg once again.

His time, when Sherlock licked John's leg, along with the expected cold wetness, John also felt a tingling in the area. He trembled.

"John? Are you all right?"

John nodded. "Yeah, I'm okay."

Sherlock nodded back.

"I'm going to do it again."

"Okay."

Another lick, and more tingling. John managed to suppress the tremor this time.

"There, that's better."

"Thanks," said John. He put his trousers back on; his leg barely hurt now.

"Will you be able to walk?"

"Yeah, no problem."

They sat in silence for a few moments. Finally, Sherlock stood up.

"I should take you back to town."

John carefully stood up and took a deep breath.

"Will you come to my room? You can leave before sunrise; even before I go to sleep. But it's been over a year since Switzerland, Sherlock; and I miss you."

Sherlock looked at John for a second, then turned towards the fire. 

"I'm not done, John. I'm close, so close... but I can't come back yet."

"And I'm not asking you to, Sherlock. I just want to see you for awhile. An _hour_ ; is that too much to ask?"

"John..."

"Think about it, okay? How long will it take us you get back to town?"

"About fifteen minutes," Sherlock replied.

"So, that's fifteen minutes to think it over." 

Sherlock smiled. "Fair enough."

Reaching into the fire--apparently it didn't hurt him--Sherlock moved the shirt around, making sure it was well burned.

"Right," said Sherlock, taking a handful of dirt and throwing it on the fire, "Let me put the fire out, and we'll head back to Grimpen Village."

"All right," said John. 

Sherlock squelched the fire, plunging them into darkness again.

"John, I think it might be best if carry you. It will let your leg rest, and I imagine you can't see where you're going."

John had to admit that it didn't take much to convince him. "Okay."

"So who was that?" John asked.

"Colonel Sebastian Moran," Sherlock replied. "A former veteran like yourself. Only he's using his talents for less... noble purposes than you are."

"Working for Moriarty," John said. "And he found out you were alive?"

"Well, technically speaking, I'm _not_. But... he found out I'm not dead, anyway."

"So you think other people know? I mean, Moriarty's people?"

"Doubtful. There aren't many of his people left _to_ know."

"Good."

Sherlock laughed.

"Still... it's not over yet, John."

"I know." He gave Sherlock a comforting squeeze.

 

"We're almost to town," Sherlock told John.

John opened his eyes to see that, indeed, he could see the lights of Grimpen Village getting closer as Sherlock moved casually but quickly towards it.

They finally got to the main road into town. Sherlock lowered John unto the ground.

"Can you walk the rest of the way?"

"Yeah, I'll be fine." 

There was a pause.

"Are you going to come with me?" John asked.

Reaching into his jacket, Sherlock pulled out a hat. He put it on his head, pulling it down so that the brim shaded his face.

"Let's go."

Smiling, John led Sherlock to The Cross Keys, and up to his hotel room. Wje they got there, John locked the door and drew curtains. Sherlock took off his hat and sat at the table.

"I'm going to make some coffee, would you-" something occurred to John. "Oh... I don't suppose you drink coffee?"

"No," said Sherlock with a smile.

John went about making coffee for himself.

"I've read your book," Sherlock said.

"And let me guess, you hated it?" John replied; but he was smiling as he said it. Picking up his coffee, he sat down at the table across from Sherlock.

"As usual, John, you romanticize everything. What should be a series of case studies becomes tales right out of a fictional novel best suited for an airport gift shop."

John laughed. Sherlock just shook his head.

"So," said John, "I know you probably can't tell me much, but what have you been up to?"

"Just traveling the word, dealing with Moriarty's network."

John nodded. "Who knows you're alive besides you, me, Mycroft and Molly?"

"I'd rather not say," said Sherlock. "But I'm impressed you figured out Mycroft knows I'm alive."

"Was he in on you faking your death?"

"No. But being declared dead, my accounts were closed, so I needed help from for funding." 

John nodded. He yawned.

"You should get some sleep."

"Yeah, I guess I have had a big day,"

They both laughed.

"I need to shower first," John said. "Are you going to leave?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I could stay until you're done."

"Okay."

 

After his shower, John came back into the main room of his hotel to see Sherlock in his thinking pose. 

"So... are you going to leave?"

"Do you want me to leave?"

"No," John replied.

After a moment's thought, John walked over to the bed. He lay down, scooting over to make room. Patting the empty space, he smiled.

"Come lay down with me."

Sherlock looked away, uncertain. 

"Look," said John, "I'll set the alarm on my watch for... 6 AM. That will give you plenty of time to get back to your hiding place, and even get out of Devon altogether, before sunrise."

"John... what, exactly, are you asking?"

"I thought we could play it by ear." 

Sherlock thought it over a moment. Then he took off his shoes and socks. Standing up, he walked over and lay down next to John. They lay looking at each other. John couldn't help but smile.

Sherlock smiled back; then he reached out. 

John sighed as Sherlock ran long, slender fingers along his cheek. 

"You're warm," he observed. "I've always heard that vampires were cold."

"It's from drinking Moran's blood. Blood taken directly from the source will warm a vampire up for awhile."

"Ah, okay."

Scooting closer, John put a hand on Sherlock's waist. Sherlock's slightly trembling fingers slid over John's lips. Leaning forward, John pressed his lips against Sherlock's. After a second, Sherlock's lips parted, and John gently licked Sherlock's lower lip. Sherlock pulled back.

"Sorry," John whispered.

"No, I liked it. Kissing is... nice." 

"Yeah, it is," John said, smiling. "You've not done much kissing, have you?"

"No, hardly any," Sherlock replied. "And I've never had sex," he added.

"Do you want to?"

"Yes."

Smiling, John kissed Sherlock again. Sherlock kissed back this time, and put his hand on John's neck. They kissed a few more times.

John rolled onto his back, pulling Sherlock on top of him. He moved his legs around until one of them was between Sherlock's.

Shifting, Sherlock supported himself with one arm. Reaching down, he caressed John's face.

"Odd..."

"What?"

"You... look so much better now. I'm not sure if it's my vampire vision, or just that..."

"'Just that...'?"

Sherlock moved down, resting his forehead against John's chest. 

"I've missed you, too."

John smiled. He rubbed Sherlock's back.

Scooting back up, Sherlock leaned down and kissed John. John kissed back, reaching up and running his fingers through Sherlock's ginger hair.

Pulling back, Sherlock stood up. He began unbuttoning his shirt. 

John sat up, smiling.

"Do you want me to strip for you?" Sherlock asked.

"Do... do you want to?"

Yes."

"Well, okay, then."

Sherlock slowly unbuckled his belt, then undid the button on his trousers and unzipped them. He resumed unbuttoning his shirt, pulling it out of his trousers, then slipping it off. He held it out for a moment then let it drop to the floor.

Sherlock hiked his trousers down, tantalizingly wiggling his hips as he did so. He finally slid them off, holding them out--then tossing them aside.

Sherlock stood for a moment letting John see him in just his boxers. Then he turned around. Tucking his thumbs in the band of his underpants, then used them to push them down, bending over as he did so. John smiled as he got a lovely view of Sherlock's arse. Sherlock stepped out of his boxers, the stood up, tossing them over his shoulder. John laughed as they landed on his head. 

"Ready?"

"Definitely," John replied

Finally, Sherlock turned around, showing John his naked body. He was thin, as always, though not too much so. He was pale, even more so than John remembered. His long arms hung loose at his side, one of his knees was slightly bent so he stood at a slight cant.

John let his eyes wander down Sherlock's body; from his pale eyes and gorgeous cheekbones to his long, thin neck; from to his delicately pink nipples to his six-pack abs; and, finally, from the dip of his navel to his long, surprising thick cock.

"Lovely," John said. He stood up. "Shall I return the favour?"

"It might be nice if you did something different," Sherlock replied.

"Hmm... all right. Sit down and close your eyes."

As soon as Sherlock did so, John quickly stripped his clothes off.

"Okay."

Sherlock opened his eyes, smiling at the sight before him. "Very nice."

John lay down, pulling Sherlock with him. He ran his hands down Sherlock's arms, and Sherlock slid his hand across John's waist, and down, resting his hand on John's arse. Smiling, John kissed him, moving his hand down and giving Sherlock's arse a squeeze. Sherlock gave a start, blushing a bit

"John..."

Smiling, John pulled back, then slid a hand down to Sherlock's waist. Sherlock rubbed John's shoulder, and reached back to play with John's hair.

"Sherlock?" said John. His fingers moved down, one finger circling Sherlock's navel.

"Yes?" 

"Do... er, do vampires ejaculate?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Uh... yes."

"Okay," said John with a wicked grin. He gave Sherlock a slow, deep kiss. "I'd very much like to suck you off..."

Sherlock's eyes widened. He looked down and away, his cheeks turning pink. 

John leaned forward and kissed Sherlock's cheek. "Is that a 'yes'?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied.

Smiling, John sat up. Sherlock did as well.

"Sit on the edge of the bed," John said. "I'm going to go get a towel to kneel on." He paused. "Actually... Sherlock, I've done this a few times, and I really don't like swallowing. Is that a problem?"

"No."

"Okay."

John went into the bathroom and got a few towels. Coming out, he saw Sherlock sitting on the end of the bed. Sherlock smiled when he saw John. Smiling back, John walked over and leaned down to kiss him.

Dropping the towel in front of Sherlock, John rested his hands on Sherlock's knees. 

"Are you okay, Sherlock? Are you ready?"

Sherlock sighed. "Relax, John, I'm a virgin, not a child."

"Sorry," John said, "I just... want you to be comfortable."

After a pause, Sherlock nodded. "Thanks."

John gently spread Sherlock's legs, scooting forward between them. Sherlock stiffened for a moment and took a breath.

After waiting for him to relax, John slid his hands up Sherlock's thighs, enjoying the feeling of the smooth, soft skin there. He saw that Sherlock's cock was flaccid. Reaching out, he wrapped his fingers around it, stroking slowly. 

"Oooh," Sherlock said, gripping the duvet.

Smiling, John slid his hand to the tip of Sherlock's cock, gently sliding a finger under his foreskin.

"Oh! That felt really good."

With a laugh, John did it again, gently pulling the foreskin up. But Sherlock's cock was already hardening and lengthening, and his foreskin was retracting. John slid his finger along the slit, which was leaking precum.

Sherlock trembled. "John..."

John stroked Sherlock's cock a few more times, then bent over. He swirled his tongue around the head, then gently blew on the now-damp tip.

"OOoh... God... do that again..."

With a smile, John did it again. Sherlock shivered with delight. 

Finally, John swallowed the head of Sherlock's cock. He slowly slid his lips down the shaft, taking as much into his mouth as he could.

"Uh... John... I..."

Sherlock came, shuddering and falling back on the bed.

John sat back. Picking up a towel, he spit into it. 

Sherlock sat up and smiled down at John. 

"That was definitely better than just masturbating."

John laughed. "Thanks."

John got up on the bed. He kissed Sherlock gently. As he did, he ran his fingers along Sherlock's cheek. His skin was cooler now; apparently the warmth he'd gotten from feeding on Moran was fading.

"John, I want you inside me."

"Okay," said John. "Do you have any condoms?"

"I'm a vampire, John, it's not an issue." 

Sherlock lay down. John reclined next to him, looking down at him.

"You sure you wanna do this lying on your back? You'll need to twist yourself into a sort of... uncomfortable position."

"I assure you, John, I'm quite flexible." 

Sherlock pulled John down on top of him, kissing him. John slid one knee between Sherlock's legs. Sherlock wrapped one leg around John's waist, pinning him to him as they kissed.

"Wait," John whispered, "Let me..." moving up, he reached between his legs.

Sherlock let John go.

"Can I watch?"

John smiled. 

"Sure."

Sitting up on his knees, John stroked himself. Sherlock bit his lower lip in anticipation.

John's cock hardened quickly. He leaned over Sherlock, kissing him. Sherlock was nearly as cold as before his feeding. John had a feeling it would take some time to get used to this.

"Are you sure about not using a condom?"

"Quite sure," Sherlock replied.

"Okay," said John. It had been years since he'd had sex without a condom. He had to admit that the idea rather excited him.

Letting go of his half-hard cock, John took ahold of Sherlock's thighs, pulling them apart and back, spreading him and arching his back to John could access his areshole easier. Sherlock relaxed and let himself be positioned. 

"We don't have any lube," John said. "Will saliva be okay?"

Sherlock nodded. "I don't feel pain, John. But it might help you go in easier."

Nodding, John sucked on his fingers. Then he leaned down and stroked Sherlock's anus. He looked up at Sherlock's face. Sherlock smiled at him. Smiling back, John pushed his fingers in. Sherlock shuddered and moaned.

"Okay?"

"Hhmm... nice..." Sherlock replied, thrusting his hips to that he pushed John's fingers in even deeper. John discovered Sherlock was cool on the inside, too. That was definitely going to take some getting used to.

John moved his fingers around, carefully pressing against Sherlock's anal ring, loosening him a bit.

Pulling his fingers out, John sat back. Spitting on his hands, he stroked himself a few more times, coating his cock. He then scooted forward, between Sherlock's legs.

Reaching up, Sherlock pulled John down, kissing him. He wrapped his legs around John's waist. He arched up.

"Fuck me, John."

"Oh, god, yes..."

Shifting, John used his left hand to guide himself into Sherlock. He paused for a moment before going in a little deeper.

Sherlock reached up, gently running his fingers over John's lips.

"I know I'm cold. Is it uncomfortable?"

"No," John replied. "It's... a little odd, but I'll manage."

"All right," said Sherlock. He kissed John, then thrust his hips again; gasping as John slid deeper into him.

John began to thrust slowly and gently. At his age this might take awhile, and he was tired enough as it was. Besides, Sherlock would be leaving tomorrow for who knew how long, so John wanted this to last as long as it could. Sherlock didn't seem to mind; he loosened his grip around John's waist a bit, and rubbed John's shoulders and back. He occasionally thrust back, but mostly just relaxed and let John be in control. They kissed and touched each other as they made love.

"John, this is... this is really nice." Sherlock actually sounded surprised.

"It is," John agreed with a smile.

John felt something poking him in the stomach. Looking down, he saw that Sherlock had gotten hard again.

"Oh... is that a problem?" Sherlock asked.

"No," said John. "But, if you want me to..." 

Shifting, John started to reach down between them.

"No, it's fine," Sherlock replied. "I... we can take care of it later."

John smiled down at him. "Okay."

As they continued, Sherlock turned them, first on their sides, then so that he was on top. He still had his legs around John's waist, forcing him to arch up as he ended up on his back. John wiggled around to get comfortable, causing Sherlock to gasp and moan as he moved around inside him.

"Oh... God... John..."

Smiling, John did it again. Sherlock actually _whimpered_.

John gently pulled Sherlock down into a kiss. He began to thrust with a little more vigour.

"John..." Sherlock buried his face in John's shoulder. "God... John... I... uh... I love you..."

John stopped for a second, stunned.

"John...?"

Gently pushing Sherlock up so he could look at him, John smiled and kissed him again. Sherlock kissed him back, then moved down to kiss his neck.

John moaned as he felt Sherlock's lips and tongue on his neck. John suddenly felt something sharp against his skin. Suddenly Sherlock pulled back.

"Sherlock, were you going to bite me?"

"I... I've only ever bitten someone to feed, and I've only ever fed when I was hungry. I've fed tonight, so I don't know why I want to feed on you."

John smiled and kissed Sherlock. John rested his head on the pillow, tilting his head back. Sherlock stroked his neck.

"John..." 

Sherlock's fangs grew again, and he relaxed on top of John. Leaning over, he bit into John's neck.

John gasped as Sherlock's fangs penetrated him; he did it again as Sherlock began to drink from him. Whether it was from getting close to climaxing or being fed on--or perhaps both--John felt absolutely euphoric. Then came another remarkable sensation: John could feel Sherlock warming up; he felt it in the hands gently holding his head still, in the skin of Sherlock's back as John caressed it, in the legs that were still wrapped around him. Most acutely, though, most amazingly, he felt it where he was buried deep in Sherlock; he felt the skin warm up around his hard, ready cock. That what was finally did it...

"OH, CHRIST!"

 

"John...?"

He felt a hand stroke his forehead.

"John... wake up..."

He was kissed gently. He actually laughed when he thought of Sleeping Beauty.

"Ah, there you are," came Sherlock's familiar voice. He caressed John's cheek gently. 

Smiling, John opened his eyes and looked up at Sherlock.

"I passed out?"

"For just a moment," said Sherlock.

"Consider it a compliment."

"All right," said Sherlock, kissing him again. 

John smiled. "I'm beat..."

"Get some sleep."

"Do vampires sleep?"

"No. But I'll stay until your alarm goes off."

"Will you wake me up to say goodbye?"

Sherlock smiled. "Sure."

John shifted a bit. "I'm sweaty... I'm going to take another quick shower."

"All right."

 

John's shower was indeed quick, just enough to clean the sweat and other bodily fluids off him. He came out into the main room of the hotel room, not bothering with even a towel. John saw that Sherlock had taken the duvet off the bed, dumping it in a corner. He was lying on the bed, his pale skin matching the white sheets. 

John lay down, reaching out and playing with Sherlock's ginger curls.

"Please tell me you're going to let it grew back dark when this is all over?"

"I don't know, I kind of like the red," said Sherlock with a twinkle in his eye.

John made a face. Sherlock laughed.

As they lay, occasionally touching and kissing, John thought over the rather surprising confession Sherlock had made while they were making love.

"Problem?"

"You... you told me you loved me."

"Oh," said Sherlock, "You heard that."

"Was I not meant to?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No it's not that, I just wasn't sure you had. It was rather... unintentional."

"I see."

"But I meant it, John. I've been doing a lot of thinking during my travels, and.... well, I just keep thinking about how much I want to get back to you. That's what all this is about, John; getting rid of Moriarty's organization to make it safe--well saf _er_ \--for you, and so that I can come back to you."

John smiled and kissed Sherlock. He was still warm from John's blood.

"I love you, too, Sherlock. And I can't wait for you to come back. I mean, I _can_ , but... the sooner you're back to stay, the better."

John yawned. He snuggled close to Sherlock, who put an arm around him.

"Get some sleep, John."

"Hmm..." said John, resting his head on Sherlock's chest and listening to his strong, steady heart beat.

 

John woke up feeling sore and cold. Opening his eyes, he looked around the hotel room. Sitting up, he slowly remembered the night before. As soon as he did, he let out a groan. Of _course_ Sherlock left without saying good bye. John wasn't upset; he wasn't even that surprised. Sighing, he got up and began getting his things together to head back to London. He had a lot to do at Baker Street to get it ready for Sherlock's return.


End file.
